MYSELF

(From The Song of Myself)

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loaf and invite my soul,

I lean and loaf at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this soil, this air,

Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,

I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,

Retiring back awhile sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,

I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy.

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN !

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is

won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the
shores acrowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and
done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

TO THE MAN-OF-WAR-BIRD

Thou who hast slept all night upon the storm,
Waking renewed on thy prodigious pinions
(Burst the wild storm? above it thou ascendedst,
And rested on the sky, thy slave that cradled thee),
Now a blue point, far, far in heaven floating,
As to the light emerging here on deck I watch thee
(Myself a speck, a point on the world's floating vast).

Far, far at sea,

After the night's fierce drifts have strewn the shore with wrecks,

With re-appearing day as now so happy and serene,

The rosy and elastic dawn, the flashing sun,

The limpid spread of air cerulean,

Thou also re-appearest.

Thou born to match the gale (thou art all wings),

To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane,

Thou ship of air that never furl'st thy sails,

Days, even weeks, untired and onward, through spaces, realms gyrating,

At dusk that look'st on Senegal, at morn America,
That sport'st amid the lightning-flash and thunder-cloud,
In them, in thy experiences, hadst thou my soul,
What joys! what joys were thine!

14.

Richard Henry Stoddard (1825-1903) belonged to the New York group of writers of the early days. Here he was for a long time engaged in editorial work. He was a frequent contributor to the leading magazines and a poet of great talent.

BURIAL OF LINCOLN

Peace! Let the long procession come,
For hark

the mournful, muffled drum,

The trumpet's wail afar;

And see! the awful car!

Peace! Let the sad procession go,

While cannons boom, and bells toll slow;
And go, thou sacred car,

Bearing our woe afar!

Go, darkly borne, from State to State,
Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait
To honor, all they can,

The dust of that good man!

Go, grandly borne, with such a train
As greatest Kings might die to gain:
The just, the wise, the brave
Attend thee to the grave!

And you, the soldiers of our wars,
Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars,

Salute him once again,

Your late commander,-slain!

Yes, let your tears indignant fall,

But leave your muskets on the wall;

Your country needs you now
Beside the forge, the plow!

So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes
The fallen to his last repose,
Beneath no mighty dome,
But in his modest home,

The churchyard where his children rest,
The quiet spot that suits him best,
There shall his grave be made,
And there his bones be laid!

And there his countrymen shall come,
With memory proud, with pity dumb,
And strangers, far and near,
For many and many a year!

For many a year and many an age,
While History on her ample page
The virtues shall enroll

Of that paternal soul!

15. Julia Ward Howe (1819-1910) was a well-known lecturer and reformer. She became famous through her war-song, the Battle-Hymn of the Republic, which was published in 1861.

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword;

His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;

I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps.

His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;

Let the Hero born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on."

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;

He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat: Oh! be swift my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With the glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me: As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.

16. John Hay (1838-1905), statesman and diplomat, was a graduate of Brown University. He rendered valuable services to his country as Ambassador to England and as Secretary of State. His Pike County Ballads gave him wide popularity as a poet. The following poem is illustrative.

JIM BLUDSO, OF THE "PRAIRIE BELLE"

(From Pike County Ballads)

Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives,
Because he don't live, you see;
Leastways, he's got out of the habit
Of livin' like you and me.